One O'Clock Appointment

I wasn’t surprised

that Mrs. Baker, my client,

was surprised

when she opened the door

and saw me standing there,

in my uniform,

my equipment in hand.

After about a second,

she registered that looking surprised

was kind of rude,

so she shook her head

almost imperceptibly and smiled.

“Please, come in,” she beckoned.

“I’m so glad you’re here.”

I put shoe covers on,

as I’m directed to do in nicer houses.

I must admit,

in the real shitholes, I don’t bother.

The Bakers were doing really well, though.

White-collar types,

definitely not putting in 12-hour shifts

at the lanthanum mines.

I imagined Mr. Baker being a top manager,

answering important video calls importantly,

clean-shaven,

in his starched dress shirt.

Or maybe he was even a bigwig

in colony government,

collecting a big salary and even bigger bribes.

But it’s silly for me to be sexist.

Mrs. Baker could be equally well employed,

a top surgeon, for example.

or one of those biologists

with high security clearances.

Anyway, these are the things I thought about

when I was standing awkwardly in her foyer,

waiting for her to show me where the problem was,

the kitchen, for example,

or the storage shed.

“Come this way,” she offered, then paused.

“I’m sorry,” she said.

“I just wasn’t expecting…”

“A woman?” I answered for her,

and she nodded.

“I don’t mean to be…” she began.

“No, no, it’s okay.  I grew up on a farm,”

I said, and that seemed to be

a sufficient explanation.

She opened a door that led

to a flight of stairs leading down, down to

a basement!

I had never even seen a basement

in all my life.

And not just a gray concrete

storage area,

but it was a whole other living space,

with couches and a bar

and a dartboard and a television

and a bathroom and a guest room

with its own little bed

and plastic children’s toys

scattered on the floor

of a separate play area,

but I’m getting ahead of myself.

I couldn’t see all that at first,

but just the stairs leading down,

and Mrs. Baker said,
“I can’t go down there,

I hope you understand…”

“Of course, Ma’am,” I replied.

“I’m sure I’ll find my way around.”

She smiled with shaking hands,

and I put a hand on her shoulder,

and I normally never touch people,

but I looked right in her eyes and said,

“It’ll be okay, ma’am, I promise.”

As she closed the door after me,

I walked slowly down the stairs,

flamethrower at the ready.

A shame I’d probably have to torch

all this nice stuff.

But the leather couches and mahogany chairs

were covered in poisonous green bile

and the shells of molting giant spewing roaches.

I heard a quiet scratching just behind me

and turned to face the darkness.

It was standing erect on two legs,

so it towered above me,

hissing growing louder

as it sensed the danger,

venom dripping from its mouth.

I could hear it preparing to regurgitate.

If any of that shit touched any part of my skin,

it would melt into a black, bubbly tar,

and I would never heal.

So looking it in its black alien eyes,

I torched it, heart beating a little faster

but otherwise outwardly calm.

Because I am an exterminator,

and I am damn good at it.